


Razzmatazz

by Yuki1014o



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Post-Canon, with spirit of the original but a bit different
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29420385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o
Summary: After the Centricide.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), No Sexual Relationship(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	Razzmatazz

**Author's Note:**

> Named after [Razmatazz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGYI6fGuut4) by IDKHBTFM
> 
> I listened to a it a lot while writing this. That band, in general, is my go-to for Ancom for some reason.

Accelerationism strains and struggles, form cracking apart into the void of irrelevancy, leaving behind only a pulsing humanoid chrysalis of color, and Ancom knows instinctively that a new ideology is being properly born. Anticentrism. Born from the ashes of Guevara.

Ancom scratches at quis nails. _Anticentrism_. Qui already left this team. Qui doesn't even want to be here. Commie is still looking at quem like qui has hung the stars, like Ancom has come back to him, but that isn’t true at all. Ancom never intended to save him. They—qui came here with the rest of the polycule in order to observe the battle. But qui saw Commie and...

It’s not like Ancom could've—could’ve just left him to _die_.

So. Here they are. In the distance, a skyscraper falls in on itself. Around them, Ancapistan crumbles and falls apart like a cracked egg. A landscape of gray and black and gold. Capitalist wasteland. Under any other circumstances, qui might be laughing. Instead, Ancom kicks a glass bottle and scratches at quis nail polish.

“So,” qui starts, then—stops. What to say? _Fun. Very nice defeating Accelerationism with you all, and yeah we were stupid powerful together, but I still fucking hate you. I’m still happy with the anarchists. Peace._ (Commie is still looking at quem like qui is a runaway pet that’s found their way back home.)

Ancap looks at quem with something approximating concern. Then shrugs his shoulders, and tilts his head at the burning orange sunset, looks back at them, and cracks a grin that splits his face. “Haha! That’s Accelerationism defeated. Ancom, welcome back! Have you any _idea_ how I’ve missed your presence. The auths were positively _insufferable_ after you left, and Libertarian, dear though he may be, just doesn’t joint around with the same chaos!”

Ancom smiles despite quemself. “We both know statists can’t have fun. That shouldn’t be news. That’s kind of why I left.”

“Hey—” Nazi starts to say, blood still splattered crimson on his pale skin.

Commie elbows the fascist. And quietly whispers: “Not now.” Nazi gives him a disgruntled look, but shuts up.

...Since when were the authoritarians so close? Ancom scratches at quis nails.

“You know what,” Ancap says, “I have a good idea.”

“You never have good ideas,” says Commie.

“It involves drinking.”

Commie blinks once, twice. Looks away and furrows his brow. “This is still bad idea.”

Ancap snickers. Taps his shoe against the ground. His fancy suit is ripped and torn along the edges. “but you’re going to participate anyway. I, for one, think an after-battle party is an _excellent_ idea. I know just the place!”

Ancom looks around doubtfully. “Uhh.”

Ancap rolls his eyes, gestures them to follow him, and starts walking towards a building that spires tall into the sky. It’s one of those window-filled reflective ones, made to be bright and poppy. Now, though, the windows are cracked and the shiny surfaces are caked in dust and grime.

“Wait wait,” says Commie, glancing behind them. “What about...”

The chrysalis. The bud of anticentrism. It’s pulsating with color. Guevara— _Anticentrist_ will fully crystallize soon. How much of his human life will he remember? Ancom barely remembers anything before quis death. Then again, for quem, it’s been almost two centuries.

“Eh.” Ancap shrugs. “Anticentrist will come to us on his own if he wants to. Not like we’re going far.”

Inside, the building is cracked and crumbling. Bookshelves and plates and fancy wine glasses are spilled out across the floor. No one suggests taking the elevator. Ancap complains and whines the whole way up the stairs, even though this was his idea in the first place.

“...So like,” Ancom skips a step or two to catch up with Ancap. “Are we going _all the way_ up?”

“Halfway,” Ancap says, “we’ll be there in a moment.”

“This better be worth it,” Nazi grumbles.

Ancom says nothing. They continue on. In the distance, outside these walls and down on ground level, things burn and crash. Concrete powder falls from somewhere above. Ancom has traversed much more dangerous places. Ancap’s complains grate against the silence.

“Here.” The capitalist stops outside a steel door, pulls out a shiny gold card, and swipes it through the lock. It clicks open. They all follows him in. Ancom is uncomfortable with the authoritarians behind quem.

“Jeez,” Nazi says, “this place is trashed.”

The windows are broken, glass shattered against the floor. Everything is strewn about. But beneath the mess of objects and broken clutter, it’s obvious that this was a luxurious space. Silk lined seats, polished mahogany tables, glinting rubies in the dust. There’s a broken door leading out onto a large balcony.

Ancap sniffs. “It was one of my private lounges. Here...”

He unlocks a cabinet and produces several bottles of wine.

“Do you have soda?” Ancom asks.

“Yeah sure.” Ancap opens the fridge and tosses quem a coke. Ancom catches it with ease. Commie makes a face at the wine but accepts a bottle anyway. Nazi drags one of the chairs onto the balcony, sits down, and starts fiddling with his gun. Ancap flicks a switch on the way, and the lights flicker just a little before settling on.

Ancom settles for leaning against the railing. The sunset is still burning bright and vivid orange across the horizon, but it’ll fade into night soon enough. Commie looks at quis position against the railing worriedly. Irritating.

Qui pops quis soda and presses further against the railing. Something creaks.

“Ancom—!” Commie starts, pauses, purses his lips. “That is...unstable, да?”

Qui takes a slow sip. “Say I fell.” Ancom kicks some glass over the edge. “What business would it be to you? And do you really think I’m _that_ stupid?”

“God,” Nazi mutters, downing beer already, “please don’t start with your dumb as shit leftist bickering again.”

Ancap leans on the solid concrete wall. “Of course they won’t,” he says, “we’re a team now, after all!”

No one says anything. They must all be thinking the same. None of them are within reaching distance of one-another. Every time Commie inches closer, Ancom slides away just a little. The soda fizzes on quis tongue. _Pop pop pop_.

Beneath them, a gun goes off.

Hopefully Anpac is alright. She won’t be fighting for herself. The other are keeping her safe, Ancom hopes. Or—no, Anpac can take care of herself. She can run and hide and avoid just fine. They’re all fine down there.

The smoldering sunset casts them all in shades of red and gold. An apocalyptic skyline.

Qui doesn’t really want to be here. It was supposed to be quis job to keep them all together and working fine, but qui left first. Ancom clears quis throat. _This was good while it lasted, but it isn’t going to last_. Commie looks at quem, and the words die.

Ancap fills in the silence. “Man, rebuilding Ancapistan is going to be a headache. But the power of libertarian capitalism will persevere!”

“Cheers to that.” Nazi says, but doesn't stick out his beer.

“Hey wait,” Ancap frowns, “you’re not even real capitalist. You’re socialist.”

Commie coughs on his alcohol and hacks over the ledge. “Is _not_.”

“He’s National _Socialism!_ ”

“Shut up,” Commie says, “he put my workers in—Marx. Ancap, blue bastard cannot be considered in glorious light of socialism.”

“In _no stretch_ of the word can his methods be considered _captali—_ ”

“Does it occur to you,” Ancom interrupts, voice flat, “that, whatever his economic position, Nazi still committed _mass genocide_ and his economics doesn’t make that better or worse.”

Commie and Ancap pause. Glance at each other, then at Nazi, then away.

“For the record,” Nazi says, sourly, “I’m Third Positionist.”

The sounds fade off into silence. Ancom picks at quis nail polish. Breathes in, breathes out. Gasoline and concrete and blood. It clogs in quis lungs and suffocates. Or maybe that’s just quem and quis stupid fucking feelings.

Beneath them, in the rubble, Anticentrist is still glowing and taking form. Teaming up. What a joke. Qui eyes the other extremists. Commie, steal stealing glances at quem. Ancap, looking far too relaxing. Nazi…

Nazi’s necklace catches red in the sunset.

Ancom has been wondering this ever since qui first came back, actually.

“By the way,” qui says, eyeing the Star of David, bright and bloody crimson against the deep blue of Nazi’s clothing, “what’s up with the Jewish imagery?”

Commie looks at where Ancom gestured. His face brightens. “It is very surprising! Apparently he is half by blood.”

Ancom squints at the authoritarian. “You’re joking me.”

“No such thing! He’s been distressed over it for while!”

Ancom looks at Ancap. The capitalist shrugs.

“ _What?_ ” Ancom asks, then looks at Nazi. “You aren’t—” but Nazi isn’t looking at quem. Nazi is staring at the floor so hard and with such murderous intent, that Ancom almost thinks it should break beneath the vitriol. “No _way_.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Nazi bites.

“Holy shit,” qui says, “Commie wasn’t kidding.” And that—Ancom starts shaking, and fails to stifles the giggles rising in quis throat at the utter _mortification_ on Nazi’s face, and qui devolves into a fit of laughter on the ground. Commie chuckles quietly. Ancap snickers.

“ _Very_ surprising,” Commie reiterates. “Not impossible though. Ethnic has no impact on conduct after all. Very pointless identification.”

“Shut up,” Nazi says, again, but quieter.

“What is he now?” Ancom asks, rhetorically. “Is he—he, what, a _Jewish fascist?_ Holy fucking shit is he Jewish Fascism now? How does that even—”

“I’m _Ethnic Identitarian_ _ism_ ,” he says.

“Ooo, scary,” Ancom says, “do you—”

Nazi rips the chain from his neck and throws the star onto the hard tiled ground. It bounces lightly and clinks against the new quiet. Nazi is shaking, and Ancom thinks, for a moment, that is is from anger. But, no, he is just—just trembling. “You think I _wanted that?_ ”

A beat.

Nazi’s fingers are reaching for his pistol. Fragile peace. This is all so fucking fragile.

“Hey,” Ancap says, voice all honey and soothing and manufactured. “No need for fighting.”

“We are team,” Commie adds, “lets all get along, да?”

Hah. The smoldering horizon has dimmed into dying embers. White bulb light spills out the broken doorway and broken windows onto the balcony. Ancom chucks quis empty can down onto the streets.

“So...” Ancap says, “Anticentrism.”

Ah. Here it is. The topic they’ve all been avoiding. The topic they’ve been walking around on threads by.

“We will...divide the world into fourths?” Commie says, but it is questioning.

Nazi looks away. “Sure.”

Ancom isn’t going to play pretend anymore. This is all—is all so _stupid_. Such an utterly _stupid_ façade. Qui doesn't even want to be here.

“That’s never going to work and all of us know it.”

A beat.

Ancap taps his shoe against the stone. “You weren’t supposed to say that.”

“I don’t serve only my own liberation,” Ancom says, “I’m not going to sit back in my own green little paradise while you three oppress people.”

Commie glances at quem. Qui gives him the middle finger. He winces. Clears his throat. “...There...cannot be true communism so long as capitalism still exists.”

“Ugh,” Ancap says, “do we have to do this _now?_ ”

“I’m fine with spending a night with no fighting,” Ancom says, “I’m not fine to spend it with the illusion that it will last.”

“Invisible hand.” The capitalist sighs, straightens up, sticks his nose up, and grins. “I’ll never rest until every market is free and available.”

“...” Nazi glances off to the side. Curls his lips. “Don’t expect me not to fight back.” Always vague, always eluding.

Ancom shivers and picks at quis nail polish. Night is starting to set in. The world spins, just a little. Commie inches closer. Ancom doesn’t move away. The authoritarian sits on the ground by quem and their knees press together.

 _I didn’t come with the intent to save you_ , Ancom thinks, _I didn’t come with the intent to be here, pressing knees with you. Can you not see that?_

“This isn’t going to last, either,” Ancom finally says.

Commie’s jaw clenches. “...Is it something I said?”

_It’s everything you say and do, all the time._

“No,” Ancom says, “it’s just how it is. You prove it every time.”

“Oh,” says Commie.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Wow,” Ancap peers at them. “You two are so _gloomy_. We still have a night together! Live a little! You two can go...do whatever after this. I don’t care. Just buy my guns.”

“Ugh,” Commie says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Pass the alcohol.”

Nazi rolls a bottle over with his boot. Pauses. “I...a friend recommended me this new role playing tabletop.”

“You’re into tabletop RPGS?” Ancap asks.

“Er,” Nazi says, “well. No. I’ve never really had anyone to play them with before.”

“Yeah okay,” Ancom says, “a one time thing though. I’m leaving in the morning.”

Commie’s fingers twitch. “Can I…?”

“You can come with me.”

“Wonderful!” Ancap claps his hands. “Lets head in! It’s getting cold out here.”

Ancap lightly steps through the glass and inside, Nazi is quick to follow, Commie hesitates at the doorway and looks at Ancom.

“One moment.” Commie stays. “Go in.”

The authoritarian purses his lips, hesitates, shakes his head. “See you in moment.” And goes in.

Quis phone buzzes. Ancom takes it out and clicks the message. Anqueer.

_Ansyn? u OK?_

_Yeah. Anpac alright?_

_She’s fine. shaken. but that’s usual w/ violence and shit. When r u getting back?_

_Sometime tomorrow, I think. Also with tankie. Maybe._

_O. why that asshole_

_idk. Be ready to bully him_

_ofc :)_

_< 3_

Ancom shuts it off and slips quis phone back. Qui stands up and leans on the railing. Closes quis eyes. Breathes in, breathes out. Blood and burning asphalt and faint gunpowder. Like revolution. Real revolution. Like new beginnings. Like the end of day, and the start of long nights. Qui opens quis eyes to the rubble of Ancapistan. To the aftermath of the centricide. 

Far below, Anticentrism is molding into a real ideology. Inside, Ancap laughs. Tonight, they will drink and touch knees and play stupid tabletop games. Tomorrow, they will section off and fight for ideological superiority.

Now, Ancom peels the last bit of nail polish from quis nails, breathes deep, and steps inside.

**Author's Note:**

> does it show that I didn’t know how to end this. Hope it wasn’t too shit. I like centricide. I like you all, too. I wanted to make something good and quick for the ending. I’ve never written from Ancom’s pov before, so I hope that wasn’t too terrible? In general, I was trying to make this an atmospheric piece but I'm not sure I quite succeeded. 
> 
> Anyway, I really hope you guys enjoyed! Thank you for taking the time to read. Per usual, constructive criticism is welcome, and I appreciate comments! They always make my day/night. <3


End file.
